


Emotions Are For Uggos

by doingwords



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Community: wrestlingkink, Emotional Constipation, Enemies to Lovers, Kayfabe Compliant, Loneliness, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-05-14 21:18:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5759179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doingwords/pseuds/doingwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Tyler is the most super-good-looking piece of emotionally-constipated gorgeousness the world has ever seen, and Bull is the guy crazy enough to try getting to know him better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt on the kink meme. Takes place some time after Tyler and Bull’s loss during the Dusty Rhodes Tag Team classic. Brief mentions of Dusty's passing and cameos by Dana Brooke and William Regal.

“Tyler, lemme ask you something, it’s been bugging me.”

Tyler Breeze, international male model and the most super-good-looking piece of gorgeousness the world has ever seen, hated his coworkers. Hideous Itami? Hated him. That foot-faced Finn Bálor? Emphatically hated him. Bayley? …Well, he didn’t hate her so much as he found her annoying, but he loathed everyone else. Day after day surrounded by uggos sometimes made him want to give up wrestling and return to modeling full-time, but that would mean missing all the perks that came with the job. The free food and energy drinks from companies dying for a namedrop on his Instagram. Working out at the Performance Center, like he was now, to ensure that the light from his beauty touches everything it sees. Then there were little things, like the chance to shoot a poisoned glare at that overgrown Oompa Loompa Bull Dempsey, who not only dared to speak to him, but now made him lose count on his clean and jerks. Oh, how he especially hated Bull Dempsey. “What.”

Bull grabbed the barbell next to Tyler and began his own set. His face flushed as he lifted the weight above his head, then dropped it for a count of one. “You’re a model, right?”

Tyler sneered. They were unfortunately facing each other in a match tonight, and here Bull was, wasting his time with stupid questions. “I am _the_ model.”

“Okay, but you’re also a wrestler. Why? You get hit in the face _a lot_.”

Tyler split his legs, one foot behind the other, on his next lift, his voice straining as he struggled to hold up the barbell. “Because wrestling needs someone as gorgeous as me.” He brought his feet together, lowered the weight to the floor and breathed deep. Twenty-four. Tyler was sure he was on twenty-four. “And this way, I’m setting an example for my fellow models who put their perfect bodies to use in other areas.”

Bull was already on his fourth rep, which was a fast road to injury and Bull should’ve known that, but then it wasn’t unlike Bull to cut corners. “That makes sense. You’re always saying you’re more than a pretty face.” As Tyler prepared for his last rep, Bull hoisted his barbell in such poor fashion that he came close to toppling over. It was shameful, how much Bull didn’t care to get things right. What was even the point of his stupid “Bull-Fit” movement if he wasn’t going to take himself seriously? “So you watched wrestling as a kid, yeah? Who’d you look up to?”

Tyler stood with arms akimbo as he measured his breaths. When it came to insults, he paced himself like he would in the ring, doling them out like a well-executed reversal, so he decided to bide his time with Bull. For now. “Shawn Michaels.” He got into starting position, back and arms straight, legs bent at shoulder width, eyes looking ahead. “Mr. Perfect.” He lifted with his legs, hips and back. The pressure mounted as he extended his body, bringing the weight to his shoulders as he bent his knees in a full squat. He inhaled. “Rick Martel.” On the exhale, he pushed the weight above the head, right leg in back of the left one. His biceps twitched as he brought it all home, safely, and once the barbell was on the floor, he braced his hands on his knees and panted. Twenty-five. “The Narcissist.”

“No surprise there.” As Tyler unwrapped his handgrips, Bull lifted, lather rinse repeat. “I’ve always been more into old school guys. Flair, the Four Horsemen. Steamboat. Harley Race. Dusty.” The too-loud clash of the barbell hitting the floor startled Tyler, and he would’ve snapped at Bull had he not noticed the now somber expression on his face. It was clear Bull wasn’t thinking about weightlifting anymore. “I miss Dusty.”

At the mention of Dusty, something in Tyler’s chest cinched—a tender, still-fresh pain. He willed down the lump forming in his throat. “Me, too.” 

Bull stared at the center of his palm as he stroked it with his thumb. “He wasn’t ever just a wrestler to me, y’know? That ‘Hard Times’ promo, man… when he says—” He stopped, swallowed. “ _Said_ , ‘My hand is touching your hand,’ I felt that. I believed he was really reaching out to me. And then getting to meet him here, and having him as a coach, and him helping me get back on Regal’s good side…” Bull sucked in a deep breath, then snatched the barbell for another rep. The entire action, from start to finish, was almost good, and he exhaled with a shudder as the weight hit the floor. “Um, Terry Funk was my favorite, though.”

“No surprise there,” Tyler said, slowly, because this was awkward and emotions were for uggos, and why would Bull confess something so personal to him? He thought he’d made his disinterest clear. Oh God, he really hoped Bull wouldn’t start crying. 

“It’s crazy, isn’t it? One minute they’re here, the next…” Bull shook his head as he folded an arm over his chest in a shoulder stretch—which he should’ve done first, by the way. “We’re all gonna lose our heroes one day. You’ll lose Shawn… I’ll lose Terry.”

Tyler clenched his jaw as he flicked his gaze over every corner of the room in hopes that he could dump Bull on someone else. Anything to fend off the nagging thoughts Bull’s words conjured up—when he’d be called up to the main roster, which titles he’d earn or cheat his way into owning, and the repulsive humanity that came with how he’d define his legacy. “You realize Funk first retired before we were _born_.”

Bull, all taut-shouldered and tense, suddenly laughed. “Yeah, he’s been old a long time. I can’t believe he’s still going.” 

“We should all be so lucky.” On Tyler’s list of Things He Hated Most, ‘small talk’ sat at the top. He knew he needed to extract himself from this conversation _fast_ , but there wasn’t an opening yet, so the ‘what ifs’ continued to pile into his brain. What if someone less deserving got the call-up before him. What if he was stuck in NXT forever. What if all this hard work had been for nothing. “I don’t think about heroes dying,” he found himself saying. “To me, they’re immortal.” 

Tyler blinked. Where did _those_ words come from? He chanced a glance at Bull, who had the smallest smile on his lips, the softest crinkles at the corners of his eyes. If he had to be honest, Bull wasn’t _that_ bad. He hated him more than Bayley, but less than Finn or Kevin. But Bull ticked off every item on his Most Hated list. Small talk. Obliviousness. An annoyingly kind spirit.

“Immortal, I like that,” Bull said, and he laughed again. “Sorry, I know this is a downer. Can’t help the feelings that sneak up on you, right?”

“Riiight.” Tyler could sense Bull wanted to keep the conversation going, but he couldn’t take it anymore. Not only was it treading toward uncomfortable territory, Bull was wrong—feelings don’t _sneak up_. They’re either there or they aren’t. _Ugh_. “So I’m leaving now, but little word of advice: slow down with your reps, or you’ll hurt yourself.” That could’ve been the end of it, but as always, he had to leave a mark. “And maybe once you learn to lift the right way, you won't be so terrible at it.”

Tyler left before Bull could form a proper comeback. For the first few seconds, he felt proud. Their bout may not have had the flawless finish he wanted, but like an RKO, sometimes the surprise itself is the reward. But as he closed in on the exit, a grain of discomfort took root in his chest. A seed at first, it soon soaked every dismissive thought he had until it bloomed into a feeling worse than anger, like a bind around his sternum. With each step forward, it squeezed tighter and tighter, until Tyler could no longer ignore it. For one second he thought about maybe, _possibly_ telling Bull not to take his comments personally since everyone was equally beneath him, until a loud string of voices distracted him from his thoughts. He turned in time to watch Bull in the middle of a cheer circle as he prepared for another lift, Chad and Jason coaching him through his form. When Bull executed his first clean and jerk flawlessly, everyone cheered. Tye slapped him a double hi-five, and Billie hugged him and pulled him in for a selfie. 

Tyler’s brow pinched, his cheeks blazing. He hated them all _so much_.


	2. Chapter 2

“I trust you’ll put on a good show tonight, lads?” 

Tyler had been waiting at Gorilla position with Bull when Regal stepped in between them. Regal clapped a fond hand on Bull’s shoulder, wishing him luck. Tyler curled his lip in disgust.

“Thanks, Mr. Regal,” Bull said, smiling like he’d already won. Or lost. It was hard to tell with Bull. “We won’t let you down.” 

“And _you_.” Regal approached Tyler, drawing circles in the air. Tyler reflexively followed his finger with his eyes and flinched when Regal tapped his nose. “Don’t disappoint me, Breeze.”

Tyler wasn’t pleased with Regal’s booking decisions (or his familiarity, for that matter) and would’ve pitched a fit were he not the epitome of class as well as cuteness. “When have I ever disappointed you, Mr. Regal.”

“I’m only saying I want you at your best.” Regal snuck a peek over his shoulder at Bull, then escorted Tyler to an empty corner and leaned close, voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re an incredible talent, but your pride continues to be your downfall, and it’s a grand shame. You’ve been so close to winning at every Takeover.”

While he appreciated Regal’s vote of confidence—really, it was the only reason he didn’t discredit his role as general manager—Tyler wouldn’t say he lost those matches. He simply grew bored with his opponents, as so often happens with brilliant, beautiful people like himself. But tonight he was wrestling Bull, who’d need divine intervention if he hoped to beat Tyler one on one. 

Tyler slung his selfie stick over his other shoulder and huffed. “If you want me at my best, give me a bigger challenge. Have you looked into cloning me like I’d requested?”

“No, flower, I haven’t, but young Bull has made significant progress in his training.” Regal smiled in that thin-lipped, complacent way that usually meant he was up to something. “I think you’ll be quite surprised with what he can do now.”

Before Tyler could protest further, the sound of flashing camera bulbs filled the arena, and he quickly got into position. The crowd noise intensified as his music progressed, and why wouldn’t it—Tyler Breeze was in the building. 

“Good luck, Tyler!” Bull chimed in from behind. _Bleagh._

When his cue hit, Tyler walked down the ramp, selfie stick extended, making sure to look extra gorgeous for every camera in the room despite having eyes only for his phone. As he slid onto the apron and marveled at his reflection, he almost laughed. Unless Regal counted “lifting weights without injuring himself” as significant progress, Tyler was sure Regal had no idea what he was talking about.

Tyler hopped onto his turnbuckle perch as Bull jogged to the ring in his silver robe. People reached out to slap hands with Bull, and Tyler inwardly recoiled as Bull allowed it to happen. Has this crowd _never_ had terrible taste in wrestlers?

Once the bell rang, they locked up, frozen in the position until Tyler dragged Bull into a headlock. Bull struggled, and Tyler yawned. There were so many exciting things he could be doing instead of wrestling Bull. Plan his grocery list, for one.

Tyler threw Bull into the ropes for a standard hip toss, but Bull, rather than fall into the motion of it, actually _blocked_ him. Tyler didn’t even have the chance to counter before Bull maneuvered him in such a way that he flung Tyler halfway across the ring with an armdrag. Tyler bounced with the impact, a hand to the small of his back as he lay on his side. When he looked up, Bull loomed over him like a monolith with that stupid smile of his. 

So that’s how he’s gonna do this. Fine.

Tyler rolled to his feet, ready to call Bull every nasty word he could think of—uggo, freak, Seth Rogen body double—until Bull committed the most horrific abuse imaginable: he touched Tyler’s hair. Worse, he _ruffled_ it, as though petting a shaggy dog. 

“Don’t touch my hair!” Tyler knocked Bull’s hand back so hard it was almost a punch to the air. “Do you hear me? Not! My! Hair!”

Bull responded by tweaking his nose.

The crowd bubbled with laughter, and Tyler lunged forward, but Bull skirted out of the way and caught him on the rebound off the ropes, downing Tyler with a sidewalk slam. Tyler felt Bull hook the leg, he heard the ref’s hand slap the mat, one, two, and terror seized him as he popped his shoulder up before the three-count. 

After the referee broke the pin, Tyler crawled into a corner and stared wild-eyed at Bull. Barely ninety seconds into the match, and Bull nearly pinned him clean. How could this be? He was so much better than Bull in every way one wrestler can be better than another. Was Bull even capable of a dropkick? And Bull. Bull stood in the center of the ring, hand above head as he proposed a test of strength. The audience clapped and shouted their encouragement, further proving his theory that Full Sail was where good taste went to die. 

Tyler grabbed one of his hands, then the other, gnashing his teeth as he pushed his shoulder into Bull as hard as he could. The only advantage Bull had over him was size, and a smart wrestler would know how to use it, but Bull would rather pander to the crowd with an easy chant instead of, you know, getting better at his job and—

“Ref! _Ref_!” Tyler gasped and yelled for the referee as Bull started bending him backward. The referee, true to his nature, did nothing, so Tyler quickly drew back and punted Bull in the stomach, then kicked him in the head with an enzuigiri. He stood tall, smirking as Bull curled up on the mat, clutching his head. There, much better.

The match continued with Tyler imparting his masterful offense, eventually knocking Bull down with a missile dropkick. Now was a good time for a selfie break, and he went to his corner and retrieved his phone. His skin glowed with sweat, hair shining like gold silk. He was so stunning he nearly kissed his reflection, but Full Sail didn’t need to know about things he did in private. 

Tyler tucked his phone away, ducked a body block moments later. He traveled the ring like a boxer, palms up and facing out as he scouted an opportunity to end the match. It was there, he just needed to time it right. The fans may not deserve the good matches he puts on, but he was nothing if not intensely principled about this sort of thing. What was it his agent called him once? ‘An orchid among dandelions.’ 

Tyler attempted a Supermodelkick, but Bull not only grabbed his leg in time, he swung it back, forcing Tyler to faceplant into the mat. He screamed in protest as Bull grabbed him by the hair, and before he knew what was happening, Bull snapped him back with a Samoan drop. With the breath knocked out of his lungs, Tyler almost didn’t catch the referee counting to three again, and he forcefully kicked out of the pinfall. 

Things got a little hazy after that.

Tyler remembered elbowing Bull in the face and pinning him, only to be knocked back after a one-count. He must’ve done it a couple of times because he could hear the ref’s hand on the mat, over and over, a chaotic echo. He remembered throwing Bull into the ropes for a Beauty Shot and winding up under him in a Boston Crab. He must’ve broken the hold, because the next thing he knew, Bull rattled him with a powerbomb, then another, then deadlifted him high over his head before slamming him into the mat. Stars swarmed above his eyes, the heat of the overhead lights bearing down as the ring vibrated with the sound of a thousand feet on steel bleachers and the loudest, hottest crowd since Brooklyn. Yet Bull was nowhere to be seen. Did he give up? Was his beauty so scorching that it caused Bull to evaporate? Did this mean he won via countout?

No, of course it wasn’t that simple. The shadow from the top turnbuckle told him enough: Bull had set him up for a diving headbutt, and if he didn’t do something quick, it would be over. He would lose again. _To Bull Dempsey._

Tyler darted out of Bull’s way in the nick of time, then desperately rolled him into a small package. The ref counted one-two-three, and the bell had never sounded so sweet. Tyler stumbled out of the ring with heaving breaths, the audience assailing him with boos as he dragged his feet up the ramp, not that he cared. Let them be infants about a perfectly good pin. But once he reached the top, Tyler dared a glance over his shoulder, and he mentally dry heaved at the sight of Bull with his arms up in victory, reveling in the crowd’s adoration. Even in defeat, Bull was undaunted, and all Tyler could think was how. How could he almost lose to Bull? And why didn’t it matter to Bull that he lost? Tyler growled and shoved past the onlookers at Gorilla as he rubbed the now tender back of his head.

Tyler spotted Regal watching the monitors nearby, and he intended to pelt him with more cloning requests when the last person he wanted to see ran up from behind. “Wow, you hear that crowd?” Bull caught up to him and shadowboxed by his side. “They loved us!” 

And Tyler would’ve verbally eviscerated Bull had he not been shocked him into stillness by Bull’s stinky, sweaty, crushing embrace. Though to Bull’s credit, he didn’t smell as bad as others Tyler could name. He was sure Scott Dawson never washed his gear.

“They absolutely did, well done, lads.” Regal had seen them by now and applauded as he approached. He shook Bull’s hand in congratulations, patted him on the back, but he merely nodded at Tyler. “And you… remember what I said earlier.” 

Tyler stared a hole into the space left behind by Regal after he’d left. So many clever comebacks were on the tip of his tongue, and they’d gone to waste. All thanks to Bull, as usual.

“Hey, thanks so much, that’s easily one of the best matches I’ve ever had.” Bull chuckled, still riding his post-match high. “Man, it’s so much fun wrestling you. I always learn something new.”

Tyler nearly sputtered. He could _maybe_ forgive inexperience, but this was _ignorance_. “What do you actually learn from me, Bull? I haven’t seen you try many dropkicks.”

“So? There’s more than one way to be a wrestler, y’know.” Bull hopped in place like Brock Lesnar, one foot after the other. “And you do everything so gracefully, even simple stuff like armdrags. I’m not at that point yet, but I’m getting there.” He laughed again. “I mean, can you imagine me doing a Beauty Shot now? I’d probably kill you.”

Tyler was sure his face wasn’t heating up. He was also sure he wasn’t trembling. Nope. “Don’t… _talk_ to me.” The word ‘ever’ almost punctuated his demand, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

Bull reached out to Tyler, though he miraculously remembered to stop just shy of touching him. “You okay? You know you _won_ the match, right?”

Rather than answer Bull, Tyler kept walking, which turned into a sprint for the nearest exit because Bull’s earnestness was like a Clothesline from Hell, a knock-out blow. He needed air, badly. And as he found the outdoors and basked in its oppressive Floridian heat, Tyler knew what else he needed: a drink.


	3. Chapter 3

“Oh look, there’s Alexa. Alexa!” Dana Brooke sipped her diet soda through a straw as she waved at Alexa, who’d just entered the bar with Blake and Murphy. Once Alexa waved back, Dana leaned toward Tyler and said, “God, what must it be like to be as ugly as her.”

Tyler snorted into his bottle of inexcusably expensive pale ale. “I ask myself that every day, about everyone.”

After a much-needed shower, Tyler had driven to an Irish pub a few blocks from Full Sail. He’d successfully avoided eye contact with the co-workers he recognized and climbed into a booth out of view from the entrance. Only Dana invited herself to sit with him, and while he didn’t care for Dana either, she had her moments. 

In the midst of retweeting some fan adoration, Tyler opened his Instagram app and idly thumbed through it, grumbling at the lack of a dislike button. He scrolled up, reminding himself that he followed uggos because it made him look cuter by comparison, when Billie’s selfie with Bull from earlier stopped him cold. There was a lip print on Bull’s cheek he hadn’t seen from his vantage point, a mauve shade matching the one Billie wore. Tyler clutched his phone as he reported the picture for spam.

“Oh ew, it’s the human tugboat.” 

Tyler glanced up, noticed Bull arriving with Baron Corbin in their pathetic interpretation of ‘business casual’, and immediately returned to his phone. Great, just what he needed.

“Can you believe Bull tried to ask me out?” Dana pretended to gag. “As if he even stood a chance.”

Tyler’s right eye twitched. He wished Dana would quit staring at Bull, and now more than ever he wished he had a dislike button for _real life_. “He asked _you_ out? He must be desperate.”

“Boy _please_. You wish you had this body next to you every night.”

“You flatter yourself too much, Miss Brooke.”

“Ex-squeeze me? Let’s be real, I’m the prettiest one here.” Dana covered his phone with her hand, which was both a quick way to get his attention and the fastest route to the top of his enemies list. “You’re cute, but that’s because you’re me without boobs.”

Tyler wasn’t angry, but he was getting there. “No, _you’re_ me if I were _hideous_.”

“Wo-ow, how much do you enjoy being wrong? Almost as much as you enjoy being a loser, I bet.” She folded her arms on the table and said, loudly, “Maybe you should team up with Bull _Dump_ -sey again, since you two like losing so much.”

Tyler caught Bull’s approach through his peripheral vision. No. Nononono. 

“So I heard my name, sorta.” Bull stood at the head of the table, and the way he faced the door suggested he wouldn’t be staying long. Small miracles. “What’s going on?”

Tyler waved him away. “Don’t bother, there’s—”

“No, I wanna hear this.” Bull turned toward Dana. “I asked you out, you called me a baby elephant, and I backed off. What is your problem?”

“You don’t think you were insulting me by asking me out?” Dana gesticulated like a reality star one margarita from a catfight, her movements so controlled that Tyler wondered if Dana knew she was in a bar and not at Full Sail. “This isn’t a movie where you can be a loser and still land a girl way out of your league. This is real life, this is _America_ , and I’m too good for you.”

Bull mirrored Dana’s pose, arms crossed over his chest as he laughed. “Well, you’re right about this being America.” He motioned to Tyler with a tilt of his head. “What’s he got to do with this?”

And no matter how hard he tried, Tyler couldn’t will himself out of existence. “I really don’t—”

“He almost _lost_ to you tonight.” Dana laughed and turned toward Tyler, hand over heart. “No offense, Tyler, because you’re slightly more tolerable than _all_ these people, but you’ve been _so_ bad at your job lately.”

“What are you talking about?” Bull said, cutting Tyler off. “You get that losing some matches doesn’t make anyone a loser, right?”

Dana’s eyebrows flattened into a straight line, the right one subtly arching as she said, “Um, did you just _hear_ yourself? By de-fi-ni-tion—”

“No, you don’t get it. Everyone loses at some point. It happens. But Tyler doesn’t let one loss stop him, he keeps trying. And he’s good, really good. And I don’t get why you’re giving him such a hard time when you’ve lost matches, too.”

“Okay, _first_ of all—”

Tyler grabbed his beer and left, hiding it from the hostess as he shoved open the entrance doors and made his way outside. He paced like a trapped animal, chugging his drink till all he could taste was anger, and after a furious throat-clearing, he slammed the finished bottle in a nearby garbage can. Stupid Bull. 

Tyler back-kicked the can into the wall just as the doors re-opened, and of course, it was Bull who’d followed him out. Who else would it be.

“Hey, don’t let her bother you, she’s—”

“Like I care what she thinks!”

“Then why are you out here?”

Tyler wasn’t lying. Dana was an idiotic toad, and at some point between meeting her on her first day and talking to her tonight, he’d realized she was too ridiculous to ever take seriously. Her words might as well have been bundled in bubblewrap for all the damage they did. 

Bull was another story. 

Tyler wanted—no, _needed_ Bull to go away. The way he’d been floating in and out of his space all day has been sheer torture, and he knew if he’d told Bull to leave him alone, Bull would listen. All he had to do was open his mouth and scream.

Instead, Tyler said, “It’s been a long time since someone’s defended me.” He crouched and sat on the stoop, elbows propped on his knees, shoulders sagging on the exhale as his right hand fiddled with the Cartier watch on his left wrist.

The bar doors swung open as a group of patrons emerged, creating background noise for history’s most uncomfortable silence. Once they were far enough away, Bull hunched and sat next to Tyler. 

“Remember when I first started here?” Bull shook his head as he scratched his beard. “‘Last of a dying breed,’ gimme a break. Baron wiped the floor with me. But I shoulda seen it coming. I was trying so hard to be the kinda tough guy I loved growing up, but none of it came natural. So I started acting more like myself, accepting help when I needed it, making friends, and I… felt _better_. I wasn’t angry anymore.” He shrugged. “I'm not any closer to winning the NXT Championship than I was then, but I think I stand a better chance these days. ’Cause I’m _me_. So, I dunno, maybe you need to figure some things out, too.”

Every word out of Bull’s mouth was an icepick in his ear. He wanted to rub Bull’s face in gravel, or at least yell at him—why _hasn’t_ he yelled at him yet? “You have _some_ nerve.”

“Huh?”

“You’re implying I don't like myself. Do you know who you're talking to?”

Bull braced his hands behind him. “What I’m saying is confidence is silent and insecurities are loud, and in my experience, that makes a lotta sense.”

Suddenly the world was too loud—the midnight traffic on University Boulevard, the drunken clamor from inside the pub, Bull’s rhythmic breathing. Tyler’s own breathing came in shorter and shorter bursts, his eyes losing focus. Why was he here? Surely he knew of better places to spend his evening. Why did he buy beer? He _hated_ beer, and he had a half-bottle of Dom Pérignon waiting for him at home. His spacious, lavish, empty home. 

Tyler clenched his hands into fists as he pushed himself to his feet. “I'm leaving.”

Bull clambered up beside him, dusting off the back of his pants. “You OK to drive?”

“I only had one beer, and I metabolize quick.” Tyler shot a pointed look at Bull, and the bitter side of him couldn’t resist digging in. “Unlike _some_ people.”

The time between the end of his comment and the slouch of Bull’s shoulders felt longer than the half-second it took. “Really, a fat joke. Cute. You can't be decent for one fucking second, can you?”

Tyler knew that in a more gorgeous world, he would’ve finished this conversation two minutes ago with zero discomfort and a fabulous exit. “Talk is cheap, and if you couldn’t tell, I have expensive taste.”

“‘Talk is cheap?’ I'm the only one even trying to be your friend.”

“Who asked you to? Bull _Dump_ -sey.”

The moment he uttered those words, Tyler wanted to cram them back down his throat. Anything to ward off the sad puppy look on Bull’s face. His insides tangled up, his tongue like a stone in his mouth as Bull swung his hands out in defeat. “Fine. Consider this another loss then.” Bull turned to leave, muttering, “Yours and mine.”

“Wai-ait.” The effort to say that word alone wore him out, and when Bull spun to face him, Tyler was stuck. The only words he had left were like magnetic poetry on a fridge door—loosely organized, unable to convey anything meaningful, and no matter how many times he rearranged the words, they still made no sense. 

Tyler brushed his hair back and mumbled, “Sorry, I guess.” Bull didn’t appear satisfied with that reply, which was too bad for him. “This is as close to an apology as I get, so take it or leave it.”

Bull seemed to take his time with those words, his forehead wrinkling in some parody of deep thought until he shoved his hands in his pockets with a half-smile, a semi-shrug. “When you put it _that_ way…”

The absence of sound between them was long enough for a bad idea to form in Tyler’s head. A really, really bad idea. “You drive here?”

“Baron did. Weird being friends with him now, I hated him _so_ much—”

“Wanna come back to my place?” Tyler didn’t know where those words came from. He only knew he didn’t want to hear Bull’s epic poem about how he and his worst enemy were now travel buddies. Bull stared at him with something between surprise and wariness, like at any second he expected Tyler to yell ‘Syke!’ and tell him he wasn’t allowed to have animals in his house, something stupid like that. “It’s not a trick. If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't do it in my house. That’s where I keep all my things.”

“I'll… go let Baron know then.” Bull quickly added, “And get my things,” like he was still waiting for Tyler to start a sentence with ‘On second thought’ and end it with ‘uggo.’

Instead, Tyler walked to his car. Some Imagine Dragons song played on the radio when he turned on the ignition, and all he could think about was what brought him to this point. Maybe he _was_ drunk, in which case he shouldn’t be driving. Or maybe he was inviting Bull as part of some elaborate prank and his subconscious hadn’t told him about it yet. Or maybe this had been Bull’s plan all along: to wear him down with horrible, persistent kindness. Maybe Bull wanted Tyler to feel bad about always keeping to himself at the PC, so he’d picked the perfect night and arranged the perfect set of circumstances to force him to connect with someone. Maybe Bull was pure, calculated evil. 

Yes, this all seemed plausible.

Tyler toggled his power door lock at least ten times as Bull sidled toward him finally, luggage wheeling behind. He could still disinvite Bull. He could still say no. He could. 

Bull rapped his knuckles on the trunk of Tyler’s car, and Tyler clamped one hand on his steering wheel, the other tugging the trunk release under his seat.

What was he doing. What what _what_ was he doing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The other designers referenced are Givenchy, Ermenegildo Zegna, and Balmain.

The first sight that greeted them upon entering the foyer to _La Maison de Breeze_ was a replica mural of Botticcelli’s _The Birth of Venus_ with Tyler as Venus. Bull wheeled his gear bag into a corner and stared.

“Wow. That is… I don’t even have the _words_ for this.”

Tyler left his bag next to Bull’s. “I know, sometimes I can’t believe how good-looking I am. Shoes off, by the way.”

Bull toed off his dress shoes as he approached the mural. Every element of the original painting remained the same and would’ve made a convincing replica had Tyler, wearing his red/gold gear and the most detached expression ever rendered to canvas, not been the centerpiece. “How long did this take?”

“About two weeks. The artist did the face three times before I fired her for not being able to fully capture my gorgeousness.” Tyler gestured toward the rest of the house. “Follow me if you want anything ’cause I’m getting a drink.” 

Tyler walked barefoot to the kitchen, stopping along the way to admire himself in each strategically-placed mirror he passed. Moods of Norway had been extra generous at the last runway show he walked for them, gifting him the clothes he was wearing tonight because no one else could ever pull off a slate gray vest, pants, and lavender dress shirt this well. Tyler paired the ensemble with a chocolate tie, also from their collection, and he looked so gorgeous he could have cried. 

He grabbed the half-bottle of Dom (a 1996 vintage, of course) from the fridge and popped off the sterling silver stopper, but as he inhaled the sweet, though muted aroma, three things dawned on him. One, he should take better care of his champagne. Two, he had no desire to share his alcohol or rinse out any glasses later. Three, _why did he invite Bull Dempsey to his house_? 

“What am I doing,” he asked his bottle, which he took a selfie with, then proceeded to drink straight out of as he returned to the living room. 

He arrived in time to find Bull standing before a partition, observing the framed portrait of Tyler hung at eye level. In the portrait, Tyler stood facing away, with his head turned toward the viewer at a three-quarter profile. He wore a brown vest and a tan cowl with a wide blue brim, his hand floating in from the bottom and holding a smartphone. Unsurprisingly, the Tyler in the portrait looked into the phone instead of the viewer, his lips vaguely puckered, his eyes like storm clouds. The detail was astonishingly photorealistic, his face so devoid of brushstrokes it was as if the paint sprouted from within the canvas. 

Bull squinted as though trying to discern its meaning. “This a reference to something, too?”

Tyler looked at his champagne. There wasn’t much left. “ _Girl with a Pearl Earring_ by Vermeer.” He paused. “I had it commissioned when I was working in Amsterdam.” 

“Oh…yeah, I see it.” Bull smirked, though it was too benign to be a smirk. “Is it called _Tyler With An iPhone_?” 

Tyler shrugged. “I suppose.”

Bull stuck his hands in his pants pockets and nodded. “That’s really cool. I took a few of the boys to see some street art in Bushwick before Summerslam. They were really excited about it, I was surprised.”

Tyler stared intently at the him in the portrait, so fortunate to be removed from this conversation. “I remember. You invited me to that.”

“You said you were washing your hair.”

“To be fair, I was.”

He led Bull further into the living room, which lacked personal touches aside from the artwork and a collage picture frame with childhood photos of Tyler. Bull picked up the frame, smiling at Tyler’s transition from devastatingly adorable boy to unjustly handsome teenager. “So this another one of your seasonal residences?”

“Only for NXT. I’ll be back in Cairo at the end of the month.” Tyler shoved his phone into his pocket. He loosened, then unfurled his tie and set it aside, and he fell back on his couch, unbuttoning his top button as Bull sat and grabbed the book on Tyler’s coffee table. It was rectangular, black, the word “Gorgeous” etched in flourished, golden cursive. Tyler balanced the bottle on his knee and swallowed hard. “That’s my portfolio.”

“You have your modeling portfolio as a coffee table book?”

“You don’t?” Tyler took a smaller sip. “It was a present from my agent.”

He watched Bull leaf through his pro shoots, ad campaigns, and runway shows, his face and body advancing in age and yo-yoing in weight. With each page turn, Tyler grew more and more uncomfortable with Bull’s presence, but the Dom had already begun massaging his brain so there was no way he could take Bull home now. He’d just have to ride this out.

Bull ran his thumb over Jean-Paul Gaultier’s name like he was trying to figure out how to pronounce it. “Gall-tier?”

“Go-tee-eh. And how _dare_ you.”

Tyler wished he could say he was surprised—what else should he have expected from someone wearing a black dress shirt and pants set clearly purchased from Walmart—but he was more than willing to correct his atrocious mistakes.

“Give-en-chee?”

Tyler shook his head. “Jee-von-shee.”

“Er-many-gildo Zeg-na?”

“Er-mehneh-gildo Zen-yah.”

“Oh, this is easy. Ball-main.”

“Bal-mehn.”

“Oh _come_ on.” 

“It’s French, deal with it.”

Bull stopped on a photoshoot Tyler hadn’t seen in a while because he always skipped it—one where his body might as well have been a clothes hanger for the different shirt/pants combos and arrowhead-patterned jackets he wore. He’d sported an undercut, cheekbones spiking out from his face as he scowled straight at the viewer. “You look, uh, leaner in these Bal-mehn ones,” Bull said after a too-long lull in conversation.

Tyler mumbled “whatever” and swatted the next page open because not only was Balmain an unpleasant experience, but the next photos were some of his favorites: his campaign with Chanel’s men’s cologne. The ads saw him fuller-faced and from the chest up, wearing a navy suit with a black button-down shirt, the play of light and shadow giving him the look of a golden-age Hollywood star. Wardrobe had fitted him with a jet black wig of what they called “elegant bedhead,” and it was the only time he’d ever considered a permanent color change. The black made his eyes _pop_ , like pearls made of smoke. 

“Wow,” Bull said, the ‘you look great’ going unspoken because of course Tyler looked great. He tapped the Chanel logo stretched near the top of the page. “Sha-nel, right?”

Tyler tried to, but couldn’t resist patting him on the arm the way Dana would. “ _There_ you go. See, you’re getting it.”

Either Bull didn’t notice the condescension in his tone or he brushed it off because his next question was, “So why’d you stop doing this full-time? Sha-nel’s a big deal, isn’t it? You could be doing this instead.”

Tyler kept drinking. He barely savored the taste. “I want to be a wrestler. I _trained_ to be a wrestler. Modeling’s something I do in the meantime.”

“How was it training with Lance?”

Tyler looked at the him in Bull’s lap—twenty-two, hollow-cheeked, modeling Alexander McQueen’s autumn collection with literal Ken doll bangs, hair sideswept and glued to his scalp. Fashion is so weird. “He’s the best. Really smart. Constructive. And he never let me cut corners. If I got something wrong, he’d make me do it till I got it right, then he’d keep making me do it till I could do it in my sleep. I still call him when I need advice.” All the memories came to him at once: kip-up drills, foot stomps, bumping so many times his back was mottled purple for days. He loved it all. Tyler stared down into his bottle, rocked it until the liquid inside began to foam. “He always believed I’d be a star.”

Tyler pressed the soles of his feet into the floor. He couldn’t bring himself to look up.

“You okay, man?”

Tyler slumped back into his couch, half-smirking as he drank the last of his champagne. A tipsy warmth steamrolled through his veins, and his couch felt like a leather marshmallow he could disappear into. “I’m great. You?”

“I’m good.” Bull had long since closed Tyler’s portfolio, and he turned his entire body to Tyler, one leg raised and bent at the knee. “So you don’t think you’re already a star?”

Tyler had to be sure of what Bull was saying first, then he blinked. “I never said that.” His heart hiccuped, and he added, “Of course I’m a star.”

“Then what are you angry about?”

Tyler grunted, combed his hair back. “I told you, I’m _fine_.”

“You’re fine,” Bull repeated, and he sighed. “You invited me to your house and got me looking at your baby pictures. This feels like the opposite of fine.”

“Is it? You don’t even know me. Maybe this is what I do when I’m in a good mood. Maybe I invite sad uggos like you to my house to take in my radiance, see for yourself what real cuteness is.” Tyler set his bottle down and jumped to his feet, suddenly overcome with laughter. The last time he was in Campo Grande, he threw a party at the penthouse apartment his agency reserved for him. He paid metallurgists to craft a statue in his likeness that spouted Cristal, and he was sure he drank his weight in the stuff, though he didn’t remember doing it. But he did remember people telling him he was more fun that way. _Tão feliz_. So happy. 

He was bouncing now with roughly the same energy he has before every live special. He turned on his heel and pointed at Bull, and he could feel himself grinning. “You don’t know what hard times are, daddeh! Hard times are when the textile workers around this country are outta work, they got four or five kids and can’t pay their wages, can’t buy their food. _Hard times_ are when the supermodels are outta work, and they tell ’em to go home. And _hard times_ are when a man has worked at a job for three years, _three years_ —” Tyler plopped down next to Bull and snatched a fistful of his shirt. Bull furrowed his brow and looked around as if searching for a hidden camera. Tyler didn’t care, and he wasn’t grinning anymore. “Three. Years. And they give him a watch, kick him in the butt, and say, ‘Hey, a Japanese guy, or an Irish guy, or some _uggo French Canadian_ took your place.’ _That’s_ hard times, daddeh.” He slapped Bull’s chest, not strong enough to be a chop but hard enough to be felt. In the back of his mind, Tyler couldn’t understand why Bull allowed him to do this. “There were only two super good-looking pieces of gorgeousness. One was Paul Newman, and he’s dead, brutha, and the other one?” Tyler slapped his own chest, straight over his heart. “Right here.”

Tyler was sure he’d given the promo of his life. Who cares if they were mostly someone else’s words. He felt every damn letter and wanted to leave the world begging for more. We’re sorry, Tyler, they’d say. You’re so cute and talented and perfect, and we’re sorry we stopped paying attention when the new guys showed up, especially when you’re so much better-looking than all of them.

Then Bull, as always, had to ruin the moment, smiling with the kind of sweetness you can never learn from the trial and error of living. It’s simply innate. “You do have nice eyes like Paul Newman.”

“Just _nice_?”

“It’s not like I need to tell you you’re gorgeous when you already know.”

Tyler seized Bull by the shoulder with the intent to shake him, but all he could manage was a lazy grip, his hand eventually giving up and laying there, lifeless. “Why. Why did I bring you here.”

Bull moved Tyler’s hand from his shoulder to the empty space between them, every gentle touch like a punch to his throat. “You tell me.”

Tyler’s nostrils flared, which he hated, because no one has _ever_ looked good with flared nostrils. He could feel the skin between his brows pinching, which meant he’d have to use his extra-moisturizing face mask tonight, and Bull was to blame. Bull was making him ugly. Tyler could think of only one way to avenge this disfigurement.

He kissed him. Kissed stupid Bull on his stupid mouth.

How dare he. How dare Bull be so cute on the inside.


	5. Chapter 5

Bull jerked his head back barely two breaths into the kiss. “Um, wow. Are you drunk? You literally called me ‘uggo’ a minute ago.”

A tantrum grew in the pit of Tyler’s stomach and ascended toward his mouth. Bull shouldn’t be here. He should be at the pub with Baron and the rest of those creatures from work. But Bull was in front of him, having separated from a kiss _he_ initiated. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, horrified when he discovered he could still taste Bull. “I’m not drunk.”

“Okay…” Bull said, the last syllable rising into a question mark. “But what makes you think I even swing that way?”

“ _Everyone_ swings my way. I dare you to tell me you don’t.”

Bull looked at Tyler as though trying to figure out a magic-eye puzzle. Like Tyler was a collection of bright, repeated shapes and if he looked hard enough, he would find the real image underneath. It unnerved Tyler, to have eyes on him like that. People admired, envied. They didn’t… _search_. And maybe Bull realized the futility of this endeavor because he blinked himself out of it, the action punctuated with a sigh. “Fine, but I still don’t get how you go from calling me ‘uggo’ to kissing me.”

“Why do you have to overthink it? We don’t have to like each other to kiss, or do anything.”

Bull laughed, a clipped sound with a note of disbelief. “I’m not saying you gotta buy me dinner first, but we’re at least cool, right?” Tyler’s answer was silence, followed by more silence. Bull’s eyes narrowed, his tone steeped in urgency. “ _Right_?” 

“What does that even mean? What does ‘being cool’ have to do with anything?” Tyler huffed, refusing to entertain such nonsense. Bull should feel lucky to even be in his presence, let alone feel the most luscious lips in the universe against his uggo mug. His muggo. But then Bull stood and headed for the front door, and Tyler found himself catching up with him too quickly, spinning Bull toward him with a rough hand. “Ex-squeeze me, where are you going? Do you know how many people would vomit to be where you are right now? Who cares if I still hate you?”

“You _hate_ me?” Bull’s jaw went slack, and for the second time that night, Tyler wished his words were tangible objects he could discard or flush. Bull wasn’t surprised anymore—he looked downright injured. “I didn’t think you _hated_ me. _Jesus_. Why even invite me over?”

“ _Invited_ , exactly!” Tyler scrambled for a comeback and hoped Bull couldn’t hear it in his voice. “I didn’t hold a gun to your head, Bull, you came here willingly, so don’t point your stubby sausage fingers at me like I’m the bad guy!”

Bull dragged his hand down over his face, his gaze solemn, and somehow that hurt more than any diving headbutt Bull could land. “I came here because I’ve never seen you invite anyone to your place. I thought maybe you took what I said earlier to heart and wanted to socialize more, and for some reason you wanted to start with me, so…” Bull shrugged, shook his head, something like disappointment in his eyes. “I don’t get you. You’ve got so much going for you, but you’re never happy. And I get being mad at losing matches, or guys who take over the place after two months, but are you actually like this with everyone, all the time? Have you ever been a real person?”

Tyler wanted to stay angry. He thrived in anger, moving less like a wrestler and more like some furious dancer. “How dare you! Do you have _any_ idea who you’re talking—”

“Stop it. Stop being so damn _Tyler_ for a second.” Bull’s voice was firm without shouting, with a self-assurance that made Tyler want to pummel a wall into dust. “Why did you invite me here? I’m not threatening you, I’m not gonna fight you. Just give me an honest answer.”

Tyler inhaled deep, shuddering breaths, his hands becoming fists as his fight-or-flight kicked in. If only Bull would throw the first punch—then at least he’d be able to expel all the strange, suffocating emotions pinballing in his gut. But he couldn’t bare to look at Bull, and every mirror he turned to reflected the poorest version of him: a Tyler who was shaken, uncertain, and fighting for every scrap of pride. So he refocused his gaze on the portrait over Bull’s shoulder, the one on the partition. _Tyler With An iPhone_. 

He’d told Bull he had it commissioned in Amsterdam, but he’d only gotten it there—it had actually been a gift from a young fan. She was part of a group waiting outside a brothel in the Red Light district where he’d been shooting an underwear campaign. She’d wanted to give him something that captured his gorgeousness and symbolized her country, and since he was the most beautiful boy who ever lived, she painted him like the most beautiful girl who ever lived. “You are like her,” she’d said. “Your eyes are like her eyes.”

Tyler heard only the tick-tock of his watch and nothing else in that moment. Everything and everyone had frozen except time itself. He stared at the painstakingly painted likeness of himself, silent, and once the portrait exchanged hands, he forced himself to move through the motions of gratefulness. He hugged the artist, thanked her, posed for a selfie. That evening, the internet told him Vermeer’s girl—the original beauty—was on display at The Mauritshuis in The Hague, an hour from his agency apartment. It showed him a picture of her, blown up to the highest possible resolution, and the image haunted him through the days of mindless posing, the nights of wine-fueled parties and empty conversations. The day before his return to the States, he couldn’t take it anymore and hopped an early morning train to The Hague. He entered The Mauritshuis as soon as it opened and searched until he found her, the centerpiece of the wall she occupied. She was tiny, barely over a foot long and wide, yet she filled the room with her presence. He inched as close as the rounded barricade before her would permit, and the girl’s eyes were identical to his, but only in color. ‘Beautiful’ couldn’t begin to describe her, but something about the way she watched him from her perch—curious, undaunted, uncomfortably intimate—disturbed him, too, and an almost violent ache blossomed in his chest, drilling away at the plaque that covered the most vulnerable parts of him. As he gazed at her, he gripped the barricade’s handrail as though he might lose his balance, his heart battering his ribcage.

Bull was still waiting for an answer, and now he wanted to tell Bull what he saw in that painting. He wanted to tell him _everything_ —by far the most ridiculous thought to have ever entered his mind, including the time he considered buying square-toed dress shoes. Who was Bull, anyway? Just another uggo he was forced to share a locker room with. Bull, who was comfortable with screwing up, who created a movement focused more on confidence than perfection, who would rather be friends than be ruthless. Why? Why did he care about things _the wrong way_?

Tyler licked his lips. His eyes fell to the floor, hair brushing his cheek. His fists loosened, and his voice was as small as he felt. “Because I don’t think I hate you.”

Bull tangled a hand in his hair and forced them to face each other, and Tyler numbly allowed it. Bull was giving him that magic-eye-puzzle look again, and Tyler wondered if he should tell Bull not to waste his time. There was no use excavating a kiddie pool.

“I can phone a cab, or we can sleep on this. Your call.”

Tyler heard his pulse in his ears. His heart spun like a top. He was stone cold sober and tired. So, so tired. “If you’re gonna use the bathroom, do it now, I’ll be in there a while.” As he headed toward his bedroom, Tyler muttered, “I’ll get you a blanket.”

As Bull followed him to his room, Tyler tried to think of every flimsy excuse to change his mind. Bull was an uggo. He didn’t take anything seriously. He’ll probably drool on his pillow. He’s too nice.

Tyler dug his fingernails into his palm as he switched on the bedroom light, his king-size mattress sprawling out before them like the Grand Canyon. He motioned toward the bathroom in the corner, figuring Bull knew how to take direction, then began rummaging through his armoire for his least favorite silk blanket. His agent insisted he use silk exclusively because it’s good for the skin during sleep, and Tyler needed to be kinder to his. All that tanning and sweating and rope burn and mat rash was destroying the beautiful body he’d worked so hard for. She never understands that he didn’t build this body so it could model.

Tyler found the blanket he’d been seeking—dark blue, dotted with permanent wine stains. He closed the armoire and turned, nearly jumping at the sight of Bull still behind him. He would’ve cursed him out had he not been confronted with the same damn look, the one that explores despite a lack of reward.

Tyler pressed his back against the armoire and reached out with a stiff hand, offering Bull the blanket. Take it, he wanted to say. Take it, and get away from me.

He made no move to stop Bull as he lowered Tyler’s hand, made no move to stop Bull when he closed in and kissed him.

Instead, Tyler kissed back.


	6. Chapter 6

Bull had Tyler pinned against the armoire, and Tyler groped the arms that powerbombed him into the mat earlier, the match now seeming like a distant memory, before cradling the back of Bull’s neck. A whimper climbed up Tyler’s throat as Bull stroked his cheek with his thumb, kissed his mouth from one corner to the other. The more they kissed, the less it mattered that Bull was Bull. He adored Tyler’s mouth with the right amount of pressure, an enthusiasm without greed, and Tyler couldn’t resist the lure of someone wanting him this much. 

Bull nuzzled his cheek before kissing a downward path over his neck, and Tyler dropped his head back, basking in the attention. People were so ordinary, and Bull was no exception, yet now he wanted to know how Bull looked beneath his thrift store clothes. He wondered if Bull fucked the way he kissed, with a steady, devoted care. He fantasized about the solid press of Bull on top, moans in his ear, the soft brush of his beard setting his nerve endings ablaze. 

A full-length mirror hung on the wall across from them, and in between kisses, Tyler caught his reflection—eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted, face flushed, his body yielding to Bull’s hands and mouth. The blanket he’d been holding fell from his grip, and Tyler’s fingers moved down the buttons on Bull’s shirt. He dipped his head and sought another kiss, another taste of affection, only for Bull to pull back. Pull back and stare. _Still_.

Dread crept up Tyler’s spine. Why would Bull stop now? Didn’t he want to do this? And _ugh_ , he’d forgotten Bull’s chest hair. At least most of the uggos they worked with had the decency to manscape. Did he have to teach Bull personal grooming, too? Did he have to do _everything_?

But Tyler knew these thoughts were distractions from the question he didn’t want the answer to, the one that forged a path out of his mouth anyway. “Why. _Why_ do you keep looking at me like that?”

Bull half-smiled, holding Tyler’s jaw as he thumbed his lower lip. “Just wanna see if something is there.”

Tyler’s hands fell to his sides. He wasn’t going to ask _And?_ He wasn’t. _He wasn’t_.

“Anyway…” Bull rubbed Tyler’s chest as he stepped back, and the loss of Bull’s sturdy warmth was the rudest awakening yet, like taking an ice bath. Once Bull had disappeared into the bathroom, Tyler’s lungs swelled with every scream left unscreamed. He caught his reflection again, and he looked ready to lariat someone into the earth’s core. 

Tyler waited until he heard running water before stalking toward the living room. He saw only red as he snatched the champagne bottle he’d left on the coffee table, anger propelling him out the front door. His Armani flip-flops smacked against the soles of his feet as he approached the trash can at the end of his driveway. Tyler flipped the lid back so hard it nearly snapped off, and he snarled as he yanked out bag after bag of garbage until he could see the bottom. Somewhere inside his house, Bull was getting ready to sleep, and the mental image was like a kendo stick to his back.

Tyler hurled the bottle into the trashcan with such force that a shard of bottleneck flew out, pinwheeling in the air until it broke into three smaller pieces on the concrete. His head hung low between his shoulders as he braced his hands against the top of the can, so angry he was shaking. Angry at what, he didn’t want to think about, although he was annoyed that his earnest attempt to vent his anger constructively left him only with a mess to clean. Tyler made disgusted little noises as he moved all the garbage, including the broken glass, back into the bin. So much exfoliating to do before bed.

When Tyler re-entered his house, Bull was in the living room wearing an NXT shirt and boxers, his hair loose from its ponytail as he stuffed his work clothes into his gear bag. Tyler flinched at the sight of Bull's blanket fanned out on the couch, like a scab had split open. 

“Oh hey, I was just changing,” Bull said as he zipped up his bag, thinking nothing of the fact that he didn’t fold his “nice” clothes before packing them. Tyler must’ve looked as distraught as he felt because Bull asked, “What is it?”

There were so many words wanting out— _you’re a stupid man, Bull Dempsey, and I’m the stupider man for inviting you, and losing control around you, and wanting to kiss you, and falling victim to your excruciating kindness_ —but Tyler imprisoned them all, switching the subject to his favorite discussion topic: appearances. “Do you leave your hair like that when you sleep? You need to take better care of it.” Bull shrugged, so Tyler picked up his blanket, slinging it over his shoulder as he latched onto Bull’s sleeve. “Come on.”

Tyler dragged Bull back into his room, tossed the blanket onto his bed, and sat Bull in front of his vanity. He opened the top drawer and pulled out a wide-tooth comb and a small scrunchie, then began the gross but necessary process of untangling thin, wavy, and perpetually wet-looking hair. Aside from some weird faces, Bull didn’t complain, which Tyler viewed as a tick in his favor. He tossed the scrunchie in Bull’s lap—maybe it would entertain him. 

“I can’t believe I’m letting you do this. You’re playing with me like I’m your doll.” Bull turned the scrunchie over in his hand. “Is this baby-sized? You own a scrunchie for _babies_.”

“Tangled bedhead is painful and ugly,” Tyler said, frowning when he realized he’d described this entire evening. “And I own several because elastic bands can cause breakage during sleep. So many of you have no idea how to treat your hair. Enzo is a disaster.”

“It matters a lot to you, doesn’t it? The state of everyone’s hair.”

“If you were all cuter, I’d feel more inclined to be friendly.” Tyler divided his hair into three even sections and began to loosely plait it. “Be grateful I’m not giving you a topknot.”

“You mean a manbun?”

Tyler tugged on Bull’s emerging braid. “Hush. We don’t say such words in this house.” Tyler undid the first braid halfway through, then the second, and it wasn’t until the fifth try that he was able to lock in every strand. A surge of calm washed over him as he nabbed the scrunchie from Bull’s hand and tied off the end. “There.”

Bull shook his head, with a look on his face could only be described as pleasantly bemused. “Better?”

Rather than snap at Bull’s overly familiar tone, Tyler busied himself unbuttoning his vest. “Much.”

Bull chuckled, swept a hand over his scalp and down his braid for an inspection. “You’re a weird guy sometimes, Tyler.”

“Ex- _cuse_ you, I happen to take pride in my work.”

“So do I, y’know. I work hard.”

“Ahh, yes, _Bull-Fit_.” Tyler didn’t roll his eyes, but the gesture might as well have been in his tone. “I’m _so_ sure it works.” 

Tyler was about to enter his walk-in closet when a strong grip abruptly stayed him, and he came face-to-face with Bull again. His eyes were narrowed, but no longer searching, and a part of Tyler couldn’t help but feel relieved. At last, Bull had found nothing, and this would all be over soon.

“Listen, I’ve been working really hard the last few months. Maybe I’m not built like Finn or have a face like yours, but that doesn’t mean I don’t take what I’m doing seriously, or that I don’t have anything to contribute.” He could tell Bull wanted to be angry, and he could tell Bull was trying to temper that anger. Tyler’s stomach clenched. “I’m a work in progress, and if it means I don’t get everything right away, or I lose a few matches, I can live with that.” 

_Unlike *some* people_ is what Tyler would’ve said if he were Bull. It’s what he’d told him earlier. But Bull took unsolicited criticism and turned it into something positive. Bull was liked, and he was likable. Bull couldn’t care less about hair maintenance yet tolerated the hands of someone who’d insulted him all day.

“I sleep on the right.” Tyler pointed at the bed with his chin, then sidestepped Bull and disappeared into his closet. He desperately needed to shuck off these clothes.

“Wait, I’m sleeping _here_?”

Bull had followed him in, calling his attention. Tyler focused on his shoe rack. “There’s enough room. Now do you mind? I’m trying to—”

“I am _not_ sleeping in your bed.” 

Tyler didn’t mean to turn around so suddenly, nor did he mean to give any indication that he was stricken by Bull’s words. His mouth moved, but the words wouldn’t come, and he knew they wouldn’t. At least there was no mirror behind Bull this time. Pain and outrage thrummed in his chest, and he didn’t want to see what kind of facial expression those feelings inspired.

“I’m not! This is _weird_ , man.” Bull skimmed his hand back over his hair and heaved a sigh. “Maybe I made a mistake kissing you, I dunno, but I have no idea what’s going on with you, you won’t _tell_ me what’s going on, and now you expect me to sleep in your bed like everything’s fine? In fact—” Bull backed out of the closet, hands up in surrender. “You know what, this is getting too confusing, I really should leave.”

Tyler stared at the empty space where Bull once stood, the rejection leaving him so cold his heart might as well have been pumping snow. He wanted to tell Bull to make good on his promise, to leave, to never talk to him again, to not bother getting any better at wrestling because he never would. He really, _really_ wanted to.

What he found himself saying, as he chased after Bull, was, “No!” Bull stopped outside the bedroom door, looking halfway into regretting his life choices. Tyler’s voice quavered like a plucked string. “I have a spare room. I’ll show you. Please.”

Tyler held his breath as he went down the corridor, the footsteps behind him a strange comfort. He opened a door to his right, turning on the light as he entered. The spare bedroom was indeed that—spare, resembling a hotel room with its basic furnishings and an already-made queen-size bed. Bull wouldn’t need a blanket, or pillows, or Tyler.

“There’s a bathroom across the hall,” Tyler said, voice stripped of its ego. “You can stay here.”

Everything about the way Bull carried himself, from the slouch of his shoulders to the pinch between his brows suggested he knew this was a bad idea, and Tyler struggled to think of what could convince him otherwise until Bull said, “We’re talking tomorrow.”

Tyler nodded, his body unable to do anything else. “Okay.”

Tyler walked to his room as though haunting his own house. His nightly routine usually consisted of a full-body exfoliating/moisturizing treatment, a spritz of revitalizing hair serum, and a 12-step Korean skincare regimen, but once his clothes came off, he climbed into bed and burritoed himself in the blanket he’d offered Bull. 

Throughout the day Tyler was a house on fire, clothes and yearbooks and load-bearing beams slowly eaten by flames. Bull was the backdraft, the broken window or opened door that reintroduced oxygen and turned the house into a bomb, an explosion of orange and smoke. 

Tyler closed his eyes, and he imagined himself as embers, smoldering till morning.


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, Tyler’s phone woke him up at exactly 8AM. He opened one bleary eye, then the other, and it wasn’t until he strained to reach his phone that the rolling expanse he called a bed struck him with its size. A cold snap tore through Tyler as he smoothed his hand over the fitted sheets. So much space for only one person. 

Tyler sighed the last bit of sleep out of his body before plodding toward the bathroom. Tonight’s house show was in Crystal River, and although he wasn’t hungover, he had to be on the road soon if he was going to reach the venue by noon. Get through this morning, he told himself. Just get through this morning, and everything will be back to normal.

He shaved his chest in the shower, cleansed and exfoliated his face and body, shedding the ugliness of last night like dead skin. Once he stood in front of his mirror, he patted his face dry, then dabbed on the toner, the essence, all the exhausting but necessary products he uses to keep his skin flawless. The entire process took an hour, and Tyler enjoyed the decadence of it—cleanliness is next to godliness, and what was Tyler Breeze if not godly. He craned his neck, tilted his head side to side as he studied his reflection, and even his stubble was vibrant. He could hear his agent now, talking him up to the tastemakers at Hugo Boss—look at his jawline, those eyes, that pout. If Helen of Troy’s face launched a thousand ships, Tyler Breeze’s can sink them. 

Tyler caught his own gaze in the mirror, then quickly looked away.

He dressed as though recovering sensation in his limbs, not quite feeling the material against his skin. The numbness stayed with him as he entered the kitchen, clung to him as he packed frozen strawberries, almond milk, and protein powder into his blender. He poured himself a glass of the resulting smoothie, trying not to notice there remained enough for a second helping. Tyler propped his elbows on his kitchen island, drinking his breakfast as he checked his phone. He liked a dog video on Instagram, blocked a Twitter user who called him ‘overrated,’ and the more he skimmed his social media, the saner he felt. He didn’t need to interact with his public, and they worshiped him regardless—it was a perfect relationship. Easy. Comfortable. All the things this promised conversation with Bull wouldn’t be.

Anger simmered behind Tyler’s eyes the more he thought about it. Why was he entertaining Bull’s ultimatum as though he had no choice? This was _his_ house.

Tyler clenched his phone till it left grooves in his palm, then he let go and stomped toward the guest room. Bull was a loser, a giant loser. His style was _atrocious_. If he thought having the biggest heart in the locker room would help him move up to the main roster, travel the world and make John Cena-levels of money, then he was as stupid as he was ugly. And he needed to, once and for all, get out of his house. _Now_.

Tyler was mere feet from the door, seconds from butchering Bull with the most brutally cruel promo imaginable, when the only thing that could distract him did just that: _Tyler With An iPhone_. 

He stood before the painting, rooted in place. Every visitor to his home claimed that a work of such exquisite beauty should hang next to the one that inspired it, but he never thought so. _Tyler With An iPhone_ belonged in his home, as it was the perfect metaphor for his life. Vermeer’s girl stared forward and met the world unflinching. Tyler Breeze, eyes always on his phone, shut everyone out. 

“Why am I not surprised you’re looking at yourself?” 

Tyler blinked out of his trance as Bull sidled up next to him. In the time Tyler had gotten ready, it seemed Bull had done the same, an NXT track jacket and jeans hugging his body, his once braided hair fastened into a topknot. He glanced at the painting, made a curious sound. “How long did it take to get done?”

Tyler debated telling Bull the truth. He didn’t feel bad about lying to Bull, yet he did, in a way he couldn’t articulate to himself. When he thought he had the words, his lips wouldn’t move, or his tongue grew thick, trapping the syllables in his mouth until they rotted away. So many sudden deaths. 

“I don’t know,” Tyler finally said, and he headed back to the kitchen. “A fan made it for me.” 

Bull followed behind. “Wait, so you didn’t—”

“No.” Tyler caught sight of his phone on the island, and he chewed the inside of his lip as he settled his hand over it. “Have you ever seen the original?”

Bull smiled and leaned against the island, arms folded. “It was at The Frick a few years ago with a bunch of other paintings, I guess they were on tour or something. I took my mom to see it when I went home for Christmas. She’s really…” He scratched his beard in thought. “She’s small, but big, you know? The painting, not my mom.”

Tyler worked in New York enough times to get a feel for Brooklyn, so the idea of Bull’s mother as ‘small but big’ seemed accurate. A little woman with a loud voice because Brooklyn makes you loud. She’s probably a nice lady, too. She certainly raised a nice boy. “I know what you mean.” Tyler cleared his throat as he retrieved a glass from his cabinet and poured that second helping of smoothie into it. “It’s strawberry,” he said as he slid the glass over to Bull. “I don’t suppose you want the rest.”

“Oh, thanks,” Bull said, and Tyler appreciated how Bull didn’t draw attention to the uncharacteristically kind gesture. Bull drained three-fourths the glass in a few gulps, wiped his mouth with the butt of his palm. “You sleep okay?”

Tyler shrugged. “You?”

“Same.” 

The silence between them might as well have had food stuck in its teeth, it was so awkward. Tyler retreated to Twitter, searching for more praise. Not that he needed others to tell him he was beautiful or talented. Of course not. He was the best at everything. _Everything_.

“Okay, let’s stop being weird about this.” Bull covered Tyler’s phone with his hand. Tyler flashed back to last night, when Dana had done the same. He didn’t hold nearly as much contempt for Bull. Not even close. “Stuff happened yesterday, and I’m still trying to make sense of it all, but one thing I know for sure is I like you. You’re kind of a dick, but I was too, once, so you might have your reasons like I did. But I saw glimpses of a real person yesterday, and I think that person’s worth getting to know.”

The muscles in Tyler’s forearm stiffened. There it was. Bull believed that beneath the magic-eye puzzle, under the brand-name clothes and bouncy hair and adorable mouth, was someone worthwhile. Tyler pulled away his hand. Sweat beaded at the back of his neck. “I’ll have you know, I don’t do friends.”

Bull smirked. Again, too benign. “And dating? You do that?”

Tyler snorted, shook his head. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you.” 

“Well, that’s the other thing. I don’t know what assumptions you have about me, and I’m not sure I wanna know. But I’d rather not spend time with people who treat me like shit, so as much as I wanna get to know you, I don’t know if I should take that chance.” Bull batted the almost-empty glass between his hands, the act somewhere between uneasy and hopeful. “So whaddaya say? Should I?”

Tyler thought of every time he was a human clotheshanger for designers, forced to dial back his personality because the fashion did the talking. The freedom to be himself was the greatest gift wrestling had offered him, until it wasn’t good enough because he hadn’t wrestled in Japan or England or a major indy promotion. And here was Bull, wanting to know him at a time when no one bothered to try. 

There was no word for the soreness in his chest, the pressure behind his eyes and in his head and through his body, other than ‘ache’. Tyler ached. “I don’t know.”

Bull’s shoulders fell with what looked like disappointment, and guilt lapped at Tyler like the tides—rising, falling, but ever present. “I guess you don’t have to know right now.” Bull drained his glass, smoothie clinging to his upper lip before he brushed it off. “But you know you still gotta take me home, right? That’s where I keep all _my_ things. Unless…” Bull looked at him through his lashes, one eyebrow slightly raised. “You _want_ me to stay.”

Tyler stared into his drink, counted the bubbles in the froth. He wondered if opening yourself up to others the way Bull did could really be that simple. If all he had to do to have someone like Bull in his life was be honest. If all he had to do to _be_ someone like Bull was open his mouth and speak. 

“I’ll take you home…but maybe we can share a room for the house shows next week.” Tyler heard no response, so he kept talking. “And Mr. Regal mentioned a while back that he wanted to take NXT to England. I walk London Fashion Week every year, so I can show you around if you want. There’s a Banksy original north of—” When Tyler finally looked up, he found Bull grinning his foolish head off. Tyler frowned. “What?”

Bull reached across and patted him on the arm, and there was no mistaking the smirk on his face this time. “ _There_ you go. See, you’re getting it.”

Tyler squinted, visions of last night piling into his brain, slotting into place. In a way, he was impressed that Bull could verbally hold his own against him. Still. “ _Ass_ hole.” 

“An asshole who almost beat you yesterday.”

Tyler groaned. “You _had_ to bring that up.”

“What, you think I’m not gonna brag that I almost beat Tyler Breeze?” Then, much to Tyler’s surprise and dismay, Bull held his hand up for a test of strength. “C’mon.”

“You’re kidding.” Bull shook his head, near-giggling, and Tyler grunted in disapproval. Wrestling in his own kitchen? How uncute. But Bull looked so earnest, so eager, and Tyler didn’t have the energy to deal with his disappointment again. He circled the island, flexing his fists as he came face to face with Bull. Mouth scrunched to one side, he tentatively caught one of Bull’s hands, then the other, and he oofed when Bull’s shoulder crashed into his. “Easy! We’re not in the ring.”

“Don’t make excuses,” Bull said between gritted teeth, pushing forward with all his strength.

This wasn’t a match so much as a playfight, which the boys did all the time—not that he ever took part in their reindeer games. Like last night, Bull used his size to his advantage, but unlike last night, Tyler wasn’t on the defensive. But very little can turn off his competitive streak, and Tyler almost instinctively yelled for a referee until Bull carefully booted him in the stomach. Tyler braced himself for another impact when Bull fled the kitchen, snickering as he sprinted toward the guest room. Tyler needed all of one second to start chasing after him. “Don’t run in my house!”

Tyler burst into the room and was immediately snagged around the waist by Bull. The next thing he knew, he was lifted off his feet and spun around, his back to Bull’s chest. In this world so quickly blurring, in this unguarded moment, Tyler couldn’t help it—he laughed. He threw his head back, joy spilling out of his mouth like water. Bull held onto Tyler as he set him down, and when Tyler turned to face him, when he looked into Bull’s eyes, only calm prevailed.

“Wow,” Bull said, almost mesmerized. “I’ve never seen you laugh before.”

Tyler settled his arms around Bull, and it didn’t feel at all strange to have them there. “A momentary lapse, I assure you.” But who was he kidding. There was no way he couldn’t laugh with Bull at his side. He was simply too ridiculous.

“I hope you have more lapses, then.” Bull chuckled, and perhaps Tyler should’ve flinched when Bull rubbed his back, perhaps he should’ve run away, but he did neither. He didn’t want to miss the look in Bull’s eyes, the _marvel_. People stared at his beauty, they gawked. They didn’t marvel. Not like this. Not like Bull. “I could paint you.” Bull looked chagrinned, shy, as he said, “I can’t. Paint, I mean. But if I could, I would paint you.”

And he knew Bull would, and he knew Bull would take his time with it, too, to make sure he did it right. He would stop and start and paint for an entire year until every line was perfect. 

Tyler settled a hand on the curve of Bull’s neck and shoulder, gazing into those brown eyes. Open your mouth, he told himself. Just open your mouth and speak. “I like you, Bull.”

Bull smiled. “I like you, too.”

Tyler withheld a tremble, even as his heart skipped. “I’m sorry I’ve been… rude. And unhelpful. I’m not good at…” He wasn’t good at emotions. He wasn’t good at being vulnerable, or accepting less than perfection, or admitting how utterly lonely he’d made himself with his self-imposed exile. “I’m not good at this.”

The corners of Bull’s eyes crinkled as his smile dimmed, a note of sympathy. He brushed back Tyler’s hair, which Tyler found he enjoyed the more he got used to it. “This is taking a lot outta you, isn’t it?”

Tyler grumbled. “You have no idea.”

Bull laughed. “Apology accepted. But if we’re gonna be friends, or date, or whatever, I’d prefer if you were nicer to me.” 

Tyler Breeze was a model, a wrestler. To Bull, he was those things, but he was also just a guy. A guy he liked. 

Bull cradled Tyler’s jaw. Tyler held the hand in place and leaned forward until his forehead rested against Bull’s, until their noses touched. This was no friendship. “I’ll work on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Half of this story was inspired by the prompt from the kink meme. The other half is me trying to figure out Tyler’s life as a model and why he was also a wrestler, and then it ended up being a character piece that spiraled out of control. If there's any interest, I might follow this up with a sequel (I've had some ideas...)
> 
> A huge thanks to mithen for being the most amazing beta! This story wouldn't have been what it is without her help. Thanks for reading, everyone!


End file.
